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One Night at The Fiesta Americana

There are times when all a person needs is a swimming pool, a king-sized bed, and the WB to feel completely restored. The technomads like to call that Wednesday. A hotel mini break to sooth the troubled soul. Malcolm made the reservation, I packed a bag, and up the Paseo we walked. All the way to the Fiesta Americana.

It is a truly grand hotel, with a stained glass ceiling, a (great) glass elevator, lovely shops, a very expat bar with terrace, and commodious rooms. Ours looked out (with tiny balcony) over the Avenue Colon and onto the pool deck at the Hyatt. We immediately changed into our suits, but not before Malcolm noted the dimensions of the television.

We had read that their pool is inferior to the Hyatt´s, and this is so: no outdoor shower and swim up bar, but it hardly matters. There were a few too many children splashing around (they are practically revered here) but a warm breeze settled over us and we swam and read and reclined until nearly 7 o’clock. Delicious!

I would be remiss if I didn´t mention that one smallish reason we answered the Fiesta´s Siren Song was to view the first episode of America´s Next Top Model. Call us slaves to vapid media if you like, but you know you love Tyra´s pregnant pauses and fierce wigs as much as we do. Well, it didn´t seem to be airing, and Malcolm starting sulking, so we did the only thing we could in a time of such imminent disaster: we hit the bar.

La Hache is a great hotel bar. It makes you feel mysterious. But not too mysterious for free snacks! fried mozarella, Filadelphia puffs, and peanuts were all an armslength away, just where I like them. Two little drinkies and an unhealthy quantity of cheese later we went back to the room for a happy reuinion with T.V. and giant pillows.

I took a bath, a much missed luxury. We watched the MTV Awards Show for emo dandy bitches who would rather cry than rock – a disapointing demonstration of how pop culture is failing to embrace anything cool, especially when they cut away from The Raconteurs to show the pig face and stretched dwarf body of Pink. N.B.: uncertain why I am so suddenly intense. Anyway, it was all very silly and cozy and easy and fun.

Which is exactly why we did it. It may seem decadent, and to be sure it is, but we woke up feeling ravenous for a brunch buffet (superior boletos de queso, worse juice, and odd litle sandwiches of ham and cheese in a sweet pastry crust) and ready for one last dip in the pool. We stayed until checkout and walked the two blocks home feeling completely satisfied that we had spent every second at The Fiesta America having the best possible time.

There Are 5 Responses So Far. »

  1. What’s worse juice?

  2. Am I losing my mind? I feel as though I am…the juice, el jugo es mejor en la Hyatt, right? that’s what I meant.

  3. We were both concerned by this. Was this English? What on Earth did you mean?

  4. Wait, now I see…”worse juice.” Jillian led me astray with her nonsense.

  5. Never mind. I’m pretty much laughing at myself pretty hard. I see now.

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